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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24456904">French, Fashion, and Facial Hair</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_october/pseuds/soft_october'>soft_october</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Fluff and Humor, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Pre-Relationship, gratuitous use of enlightenment philosophers, its a mustachioed crowley's world and we're all just living in it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:21:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,520</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24456904</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_october/pseuds/soft_october</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Aziraphale, who is going to hear us?” Crowley cast his arms about the carriage. “No one else is here! And do you honestly think She’s going to raise a hand and smite me down for a moustache?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Its 1749, and Aziraphale invites Crowley out to a Parisian Salon under a paper thin excuse to conduct a blessing and a temptation. Aziraphale is decked out in lace and silk, Crowley has period inappropriate facial hair, and all your favorite French philosophers are here all causing a fuss.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>103</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>To The World - Good Omens Anniversary Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>French, Fashion, and Facial Hair</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/rfsmiley/gifts">rfsmiley</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the Soft Omens anniversary gift exchange!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Crowley you look <em> ridiculous</em>.” </p><p>They were crowded together in a carriage a bit too small for the two of them, made worse by the extravagant finery the angel was both dressed in, though Aziraphale wouldn’t have traded his handsome, frilly coat for Crowley’s more bourgeois attire for anything in the world. He felt positively decadent in his layers of satin and lace, long curled hair and shining shoes. If clothes could make the man, then surely they could help an angel along, and he wouldn’t allow Crowley’s ah - <em> questionable </em>choice of facial hair to ruin the evening. </p><p>“I do <em> not, </em> angel!” Crowley protested. “I promise this is <em> very </em> fashion forward.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  Perhaps it was a <em> hundred and fifty years </em> forward, but surely belonged nowhere in the circles they planned on moving in this evening. </p><p>“I just worry that everyone else will say that you-”</p><p>“Everyone else!” Crowley exclaimed, incredulous. “Who are you trying to impress, angel? Voltaire?” Crowley shook his head. Voltaire’s notions were a bit too radical even for Aziraphale. “He’s a bit of a <em> racy </em> fellow, isn’t he? Rather <em> blasphemous </em> if I may.” Crowley leered at him dramatically with each of these proclamations and Aziraphale tried not to smile.</p><p>“You may say so, though I hope you wouldn’t in front of the man himself.”</p><p>“Why not? He’d take it as a compliment, if anything.”</p><p>“I <em> just </em>want everything to go smoothly tonight, surely you can -”</p><p>“Oh it’’ll be <em> fine</em>, angel. Surely they won’t throw me out for a fashion faux pas. It’ll give the buggers something to gossip about, I swear they’re like a gaggle of hens in -”</p><p>“Shhhh! Crowley!”</p><p>“Aziraphale who is going to hear us?” Crowley cast his arms about the carriage. “No one else is here! And do you honestly think She’s going to raise a hand and smite me down for a <em> moustache </em> ?” Aziraphale cast a glance upward, as if he couldn’t be <em> quite </em> sure.</p><p> Well, if she’d ignored their… <em> fraternizing </em> for the last few thousand years, he could trust Her to allow Crowley his facial hair, no matter <em> what </em>the great philosophers might think. </p><p>“If it really  bothers you so much why invite me along at all?” Crowley was now staring out the window at the street passing by. Aziraphale watched his face blaze up in light and fade from the streets lamps outside. He wished, not for the first time, that Crowley would leave off those glasses when it was just the two of them, and though he should say something along the lines of their agreement, of the blessing and temptation they had claimed was the reason for their getting together, he sensed that such reasoning would fall flat. </p><p>“Well,” he began, rather conspiratorially, “You know how these people get. Remember Socrates?”</p><p>“Angel, I hardly think this is going to be like one of <em> Socrates’ </em> little get-togethers.” Crowley lifted up his arms, indicating his clothing. “Too many <em> buttons </em> for one thing, no easy access to any of the fun parts. Not to mention all of these philosophers <em> hate </em> each other, and not the <em> fun </em> kind of hate those Greeks had where it helps along in the 'grand finale.' These modern philosophers have the kind that gets everyone silly and stupid and screaming and tossing too much wine in each others faces.” A small smile spread across Crowley’s face. “Remember the night Socrates and the rest were all going on and on about -”</p><p>“Love, yes and they wouldn’t shut up about all the different types of love there were and - ”</p><p>“By the time we realized what it was all leading up too they were already loosening togas and looking at you like you were lunch - ”</p><p>“When you grabbed me on the way out the door I’m sure they thought -”</p><p>“<em> I </em> thought <em> you </em>were going to crack an ankle dropping from that window.”</p><p>“Well I would have - if you hadn’t caught me.” Aziraphale blushed to remember the evening, when he ungracefully tumbled out a window straight into Crowley’s arms. He blushed even more to remember the look they had given each other before Aziraphale clambered to the ground, stuttering apologies. </p><p>“A right <em> gallant </em>I am,” said Crowley, as if he could read Aziraphale’s thoughts. “Master of rescuing blue eyed angels from the would be ravishings of an orgy of philosophers.” Aziraphale shook his head willing away the image and all the feelings it brought. </p><p>“Was that the same night we found that lovely little place with the flatbreads?” Yes! Food! That was a safe topic, always had been. </p><p>“No,” Crowley shook his head.  “That was the place in Marathon, before the battle. Still haven’t had figs as good since, something about the wine they were soaked in. I think we both -” </p><p>“Oh that’s right, I remember we -” What Aziraphale remembered was sadly to be forgotten as the carriage slowed to a stop. </p><p>“Ah - I do believe we’re here.”  Crowley alighted from the carriage, and held his hand out to assist Aziraphale down, as if the angel were some dainty thing covered in five miles of skirts and petticoats. He was not, but it was nice to have the touch, if only for a moment, to relish in that slice of plausible deniability before Crowley dropped his hand and stood awkwardly beside him. Light and conversation and music were streaming out of the open windows onto the street, and Aziraphale took a deep breath, steeling himself for the night ahead. </p><p>“Alright there, angel?” Crowley asked, gently. It was almost enough to pretend, to act like their meeting was commonplace, that they got together all the time for an evening on the town.</p><p>“Of course, <em> foul fiend,</em>” Aziraphale replied with a smile. “Shall we?” </p><p>It was a glittering crowd gathered there, and the party was already in full swing as they stepped in through the double doors. Among the throng Aziraphale spotted a lawyer and a student almost coming to blows over the correct interpretation of Diderot, a lady in a fine bonnet and gown slamming a banker’s head into a table, and even a pair of poets tucked into a corner, fingers entwined, heedless of the spectacle around them. </p><p>Perhaps predictably, Voltaire was holding court towards the back of the room, doling out his studied little <em> bon mots </em> like a particularly strict nanny to a group of rambunctious children who had yet to learn patience. Aziraphale looked to Crowley, to see if the demon had a witty observation of his own to make, but Crowley was already gone, moving somewhere though that sea of people in search of his assignment, no doubt. Aziraphale did his best to smile and mingle and converse with the greatest minds of their time and place, but he could not help the way his eyes kept scanning the crowd for a curl of red hair, and, yes, for practically the only face in a pre-revolutionary French salon that bore a mustache. </p>
<hr/><p>Crowley, for his part, conducted his temptation in the first five minutes (Baron d'Holbach hardly needed any encouragement to continue his anti-religious writings, after all). He thought of returning to Aziraphale at once, but the angel was quite engaged by a small crowd of admirers to his fashion, and Crowley's lip quirked into a smile as he turned away to leave Aziraphale to it. </p><p>He found industry enough in such a gathering, where the strict lines of France's class system were blurred together the longer the night wore on, but within an hour and a half, Aziraphale crept up beside Crowley, his mouth drawn into a frown. </p><p>“What is it?” Crowley asked at once, disregarding the charming Mademoiselle de Leroux’s query as to his bold choice of beard. He heard indistinct shouting somewhere in the depths of the room and found he recognized the source.  “Is that Rosseau? Is he being a dreadful bore again?”</p><p>“Worse!” Aziraphale exclaimed, clearly quite put out. “He’s harassing poor Madame de Beauchamps and causing a terrible fuss.” Crowley nodded. Their hostess was a stout, vivacious woman who would not take kindly to Rosseau's more… antiquated views about her sex, but nonetheless would feel obligated in her role not to throw him out into the street.  </p><p>“Right,” Crowley nodded. “What do you want to do about it?” Aziraphale tilted his head to the side, <em> appearing </em> distressed though certainly not <em> feeling </em>a whit. </p><p>“Well, what I’m planning isn’t quite <em> angelic</em>, I’m afraid,” he admitted to Crowley. </p><p>“How fortunate for you that there just happens to be a demon here tonight! If anything should come up in your reports, I suppose you could always blame it on him?”</p><p>“Do you think he’d be amendable to such an enterprise?”</p><p>“Angel, I think he’d be <em> fucking chuffed.</em>” </p><p>Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at his “nefarious” counterpart and raised his glass, as if in toast. </p><p>Crowley nodded in agreement, and casually sauntered over towards the direction of the shouting. Rousseau was getting very heated indeed, jabbing his little finger in the air again and again, denouncing Madame Beauchamps’ political opinions even as she struggled in vain to continue the conversation among the other luminaries close at hand. </p><p>“Perhaps he criticizes women,” Crowley whispered to Volataire, who had maneuvered closer to the seat of chaos, “because he has no idea how to hold them!” Voltaire chuckled, storied the criticism away for later to claim it as his own. </p><p>“Yes, Jean,” Voltaire shouted, not to be outdone by this crimson haired upstart. “Tell us again how your son is doing, you <em> are </em>the expert after all!” At this outrage Rosseau blushed crimson, and brandished his empty glass in Voltaires’ face. </p><p>“How <em> dare </em> you sir, I demand a challenge -” </p><p>It was at this very moment that Aziraphale stumbled into Rosseau and threw an entire glass of wine in his face. He babbled apologies, quite on accident, you understand, <em> never </em> meant to insult such an accomplished thinker, and Crowley descended upon them in an instant, attempting to placate. </p><p>“So sorry for my friend, he does enjoy the salon - a bit too much, wouldn’t you say?”</p><p>Aziraphale, for his part in the deception, staggered away towards the kitchens, while Crowley found a handkerchief somewhere in his pockets and began to wipe Bordeaux from Rousseau's face. </p><p>“Not enough!” Rosseau cried. “I demand satisfaction from this - this miscreant -” He pointed a pen at Aziraphale like it was a sword, and that’s as far as he got before Crowley sneered and snapped his fingers and he froze in place. </p><p>It wasn’t just Rosseau who suffered the consequences of Crowley’s powers. The whole salon had come to an eerie standstill. </p><p>“Oh, Crowley -” </p><p>“Give me a minute, angel.” Crowley picked up the philosopher under his arms as if he weighed nothing more than a scrap of paper, and headed towards the door with him. It was only five minutes later, when Rosseau was presumably a safe distance away, that Crowley reappeared and snapped his fingers again. The night around them resumed, and after a moment of confusion that everyone blamed on the wine and the heat of the evening, none were the wiser that the laws of physics themselves had been momentarily bent to the whims of a single demon.</p><p>“That wasn’t very neatly done.” Aziraphale looked at him quizzically. Crowley was usually smoother than that, hardly ever had to spare a miracle, or caused a fuss. The only thing that was different was that Rosseau had threatened - </p><p>“But it was <em> done</em>, wasn’t it?” Crowley snapped. “And now your night can go as you planned.”</p><p>“They certainly won’t have a <em> better </em>opinion of you, from now on. You know they always have the odd sense that something’s gone wrong.” Crowley shrugged. “They’ll be in good company. I have it on the proper authorities that roughly most of Europe has a poor opinion of my kind.” Aziraphale’s arm, which had reached out, perhaps to press Crowley's, or, far more damningly, soothe his darkened features with a gentle touch of his cheek, was arrested as Crowley clapped him on the shoulder. </p><p>“Come on,” Crowley said, leading them back towards a loud, laughing gaggle of people. ”I know you didn't get all dressed up just to fling wine about.”</p><p>The rest of the night dissolved into a haze of wine and discourse. He had a vague impression of toasts to the two of them from around a crowded table, of Crowley entwining their fingers under that same table, of leaning against each other, laughing, of Crowley's eyes behind glasses that had slipped down his nose, of Aziraphale tracing the outline of his mustache again and again and giggling at its its bristly softness.</p><p>The ride home was much less jocular than the ride there. Crowley slumped against him, miming a drunk, and Aziraphale allowed him to rest his head upon his own shoulder. His only difficulty was that his hands greatest desire was to twirl about those fiery locks, and the salon, with all its hiding places, was well behind them now.  </p><p>“Shall I see you soon, then?” Crowley’s eyes were shrouded by his dark glasses, but Aziraphale could tell he was looking away, focusing on the gentle flicker of the street lamps outside Aziraphale’s rooms. </p><p>“Perhaps,” Aziraphale ground out. “If we should have a temptation and a blessing cross again.” It was a cop out, as the conclusions to these types of outings always were. A refusal to admit what he wanted, a concession to the whims of heaven. But Crowley gave him a smile that only strained at the edges. </p><p>“Whatever you like, angel. I'll see you around.”</p>
<hr/><p>As he often did when an evening with Crowley had concluded, Aziraphale sat in his parlour, reviewing the entirety of their exchanges in his head. Had he given anything away? Smiled too much, brushed Crowley’s hand one too many times? Did Crowley suspect anything? These wanderings were like to dip a toe into the fantastical if they were not soberly diverted, and Aziraphale had no desire to do so. He allowed himself to dwell on the lines of Crowley’s face, the unreal amber of his eyes that sometimes flashed in the candlelight, the way those lips would quirk to the right whenever Crowley was trying not to laugh, what it would be like to lean and and press his lips - just the barest graze, mind - but to press his lips to the corner of that mouth. </p><p>Oh but - now there was that mustache to contend with! There was nothing to do but work around it. Perhaps it wouldn’t get in the way at all! Oh but if there was one kiss, well then there might be another, and then how could it be avoided? Would it tickle? Possibly. And - well, just to suppose things progressed <em> farther </em> than kissing, it would most likely cause <em> quite </em> a diverting sensation if those lips were to ever to go lower, perhaps - </p><p>Oh dear. </p><p>Perhaps the mustache was <em> growing </em> on him after all! </p><p>Chuckling at his own terrible pun, Aziraphale lit the candle beside him, and settled in for a night of reading. </p><p>Fanny Hill, this time. </p><p>He’d had enough philosophy for one evening. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was stupid fun to write, hope you enjoyed! Catch me over on tumblr at <a href="https://soft-october-night.tumblr.com/">@soft-october-night</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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